


Worth the wait

by orphean



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Bathroom Sex, M/M, Semi-Public Sex, Sex Toys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-26
Updated: 2020-09-26
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:40:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26663083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphean/pseuds/orphean
Summary: Bruce Wayne visits the Daily Planet office.
Relationships: Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 13
Kudos: 189





	Worth the wait

Clark opened his mailbox and frowned at the package taking up almost the entire box. He hadn’t ordered anything online, and his mother always told him when she was sending him a care package. When he looked at the handwriting of the address label, he put the box under his arm and brought it up to his apartment. 

He had seen Bruce two days ago, and he’d said nothing about sending him something in the mail.

Clark tore open the outer packaging and pulled out the inner box. It was elegant, black cardboard that almost felt plush under his fingers, the top embossed with a looping _W_. He traced his finger over the letter before he pried the second box open as well. Clark was reminded of matryoshka dolls when the inner box revealed a greeting card, a small bottle of lubricant, and black velvet bag with something inside. Clark turned the card over. 

_For tomorrow. B_

Clark lifted the gift bag from the box and let the contents fall into his hand. It was a butt plug. Clark frowned.

It wasn’t that they hadn’t used sex toys before, but Bruce had never _given_ him one before. He held the flared base between fingers and thumb and studied the toy, turning it this way and that. It was elegant, but so was everything in Bruce’s life. It was made of a soft black silicon that, when he ran his fingers over it, almost felt like silk. It was heavier than he’d expected. Was it weighted? He blinked and looked inside the toy. No, not weighted. It was motorised. Clark hadn’t really spent any time studying sex toy machinery, but it looked intricate and precisely designed. He felt something under his thumb and turned the toy over. On the bottom of the toy there was an etching of four lines that, depending on how he turned it, looked like the ears of a bat or a _W_. A Bruce Wayne original, then.

The toy had a motor but there were no buttons on it. It stood to reason that it was controlled by a remote. He looked in the box again, running his fingers over the silk padding to feel for anything he might have missed. No remote.

He put the toy back in the box and considered calling Bruce. He had an inkling of what Bruce was planning, but he didn’t _know_. He could ask, he reasoned. But then again – if Bruce wanted to tell him more, he would have already. Clark tapped the corner of the greeting card against his lip as he considered. Bruce liked to plan, but he also liked to tease.

And sometimes surprises were good.

Clark thought about it and decided. He’d wait.

Tomorrow, then.

* * *

Clark shifted in his seat and ran his latest article through the Word spell checker. It was almost lunch, and he still didn’t know for certain what Bruce was planning. The toy sat snug and comfortable inside him, and he had grown used to the stretch. He didn’t even think about it most of the time. Sometimes when he moved it moved with him, nudging deeper inside him, sending sudden flashes of intensity through his body.

Perry appeared from his office and clapped his hands.

‘Everyone! On your best behaviour. Clear off all the junk from your desks. We’ve got a special guest coming in ten minutes.’

Clark dutifully took his three half-finished coffee mugs to the kitchen and put them in the dishwasher. He returned to his desk and counted down the minutes while he cleaned out his inbox. How could Postmates send so many emails in one week, anyway?

Nine minutes and fifteen seconds later, Perry re-appeared and snapped his fingers until people looked up from their desks.

‘Attention, folk! I bet you’ve all met him before, and if you’ve not met him, you’ve surely _seen_ him. Everyone: owner of the _Daily Planet_ , Bruce Wayne.’

Bruce Wayne leaned on his back leg and gave a lazy wave to the journalists focused on him. His suit was a heather grey, his red tie and gold collar bar the only flash of colour in the ensemble. He looked around the room, eyes lingering on more than one pair of bare ankles in stilettos before he dragged his gaze over Clark, the once-over quick but at the same time lingering in a way that felt dirty. He kept one hand in his pocket as he addressed the room with a half-cocked leer.

‘Hello all. How’s my favourite newspaper? Still getting those scoops?’

‘Yes, we sure are, Mr Wayne.’ Perry laughed a little. ‘And why do we have the pleasure of seeing you today?’

‘Oh you know…’ Bruce chuckled, false and tinny. He caught Clark’s eye for a moment, and for just a second Clark could see _Bruce_ , not the flirting façade, but the man he knew and worked with and – well. ‘Just fun.’

He looked away. Clark saw the curl of a grin in the corner of his mouth and the barest movement of his right arm, a shift in the pocket where he kept his hand.

The vibrations were sudden and hard and _loud_ ; Clark wondered if anyone else could hear the buzz he could feel in his bones. After hours of the toy staying still and unmoving, the sudden force of its motion was enough to make him jump in his seat, kicking the trash can under his seat. The vibrations dropped to a murmur, and Clark realised everyone had turned to look at him.

‘Kent, what in blazes are you doing?’

‘Sorry, sir.’ It had been fifteen years since he graduated high school, but there was something about the way Perry addressed him that made him want to be just that extra bit polite. ‘Thought I felt something crawling up my leg. Not a big fan of spiders. Sorry, Mr Wayne.’

Clark glanced at the man, who studied him with vacant eyes.

‘Don’t worry, Mr Kent. Spiders are creepy. They’ll crawl right in and lay eggs in places you wouldn’t imagine. Or that’s what I’ve always heard.’ He grinned at him before he addressed the room again. ‘I’m just here to bend your ears, have you tell me what’s going on. My lawyers say it makes me more approachable. I think he volunteered, so Kent’s first. Everyone, do your thing. Now, Mr Kent, what are you working on?’

The slow drawl of the toy was replaced by a soft undulation, a rise and fall that was bearable though it wasn’t enough, pushing close but not close _enough_. Clark exhaled and tried to smile up at the billionaire, who was half-sitting on some very important paperwork on his desk.

‘I’m doing a piece on illegal foreclosures in the warehouse districts. I have a theory that–’

‘Mm, hmm, very interesting.’

Bruce only seemed to half-listen, most of his attention focused on the stress toy he had picked up from Clark’s desk, a small green hedgehog that he’d got at a white elephant several Christmasses ago. As he studied the silicon animal, Clark felt the toy inside him change its pace, changing to a rhythm that felt like morse code, though he struggled to focus enough to decode the pattern.

‘I’m also working on an article about the Greater Metropolis dog show.’ Clark managed to keep the quiver out of his voice, and dared a glance at Bruce. He looked down at him with dark eyes, eyes that didn’t match the vacuous smile.

‘That’s more like it.’ He stared at him for another few seconds. ‘Well, no rest for the wicked. I’ve got to be looking at some other pretty faces, Mr Kent. Keep up the good work.’

He clapped his back and, as he was leaving, pressed his index and ring finger against Clark’s desk for two seconds before withdrawing his hand. Clark recognised the movement. It was one they had developed years ago, a signal that said: _Stay. Wait for my signal._

Bruce didn’t look back and made a bee-line for Lois, droning at her as she clutched a binder to her chest and waited for him to finish. Clark tried to work, but the buzzing inside him was hard to ignore. He focused on the pattern and tried to distinguish the morse. When he finally figured it out, after Wayne had moved from Lois to Lombard to Vicki, Clark was ready to kick himself for not figuring it out earlier: _K A L E L_.

As if Bruce knew that Clark had deciphered the pattern, it changed again, each sharp vibration interspersed with moments of stillness. Clark crossed his legs and tried to look as busy as possible, hoping that no one would approach him. He typed frantically on his piece about the warehouse districts and kept one ear trained on Bruce’s disinterested questions, listening for the signal, whatever it might be. Minutes passed and Clark bit the inside of his cheek and prayed that he looked unaffected, even though he felt like he was burning up from the inside. Bruce Wayne was discussing the rise of alcoholic sparkling water with the latest _Planet_ food editor and the toy was much _too_ _much_ and _not enough_.

Clark was about to – maybe jump out of a window to get away or to hide somewhere to relieve just a little bit of pressure or maybe just – give up when he heard Bruce speak.

‘Excuse me, mister – Olsen, was it? – would you excuse me for a few minutes? I’d promised to take a call right about now.’

Bruce smirked at Jimmy and turned on his heel. Inside Clark, the staccato rhythm was replaced by an ever-changing wave, growing and receding, over and over. If that wasn’t a signal, Clark didn’t know what was. He waited until Bruce had disappeared behind a corner before he followed.

Clark retraced his steps and followed down the twisting corridors down to the _Planet_ ’s disused annex. He had turned another corner when he saw a door creak shut. He stopped in front of it and took a breath, then two (the toy taunting _bzz bzz bzz_ ), opened the door, and stepped over the threshold. 

The second Clark was inside, Bruce slammed the door shut, locked it, and pushed him up against the wall. The undulation of the toy sent shocks of pleasure up his body and the heel of Bruce’s palm pressed against his cock was satisfying enough to almost be unbearable. It would be embarrassing if Bruce didn’t look so damned pleased.

‘Fuck, Bruce, I’m going to–’ Clark bucked against the hand and–

Didn’t come. Bruce pulled away his hand and the toy _stopped_ , the sudden stillness flooding his body like ice.

‘Jesus, Bruce.’

Bruce kissed his neck and nudged his legs apart with a knee.

‘We have ten minutes, max. You’re too old to come in your pants.’ He started working Clark’s belt open, still chasing kisses along his skin. Clark felt his eyes flicker shut from the drag of Bruce’s stubble and the softness of his mouth.

‘Do you have a better idea?’ Clark lolled his head against the wall as Bruce shoved a hand down his pants and circled finger and thumb around him.

‘Maybe – any requests?’

Bruce closed his mouth over his Adam’s apple and scraped his teeth across his throat.

‘The toy… turn it back on, please.’

‘Polite. I like that.’

He worked him at a lazy pace and reached into his pocket again. Clark could feel his arousal grow again, building in anticipation of what Bruce could do to him, how easily he could make him come for him in a _Daily Planet_ bathroom, almost within earshot of nearly everyone whose journalistic instinct he respected. The plug buzzed to life, sending shocks of need through his body.

Bruce took a step back and took his time to kneel before him. He looked up at Clark through heavy lashes with a leer that he had seen on the cover of countless gossip rags. It was a grin that sent Clark’s blood directly to his cock. Bruce kept a hand in his pocket, working through the patterns of the toy from the slow buzz to the morse code pattern to the one that felt like a wave crashing on a shore, building and falling and bringing Clark up to but never passing the edge over and over.

He grinned at him once more, the smile slanted and smug, and swallowed him down. He splayed his hand across Clark’s sternum, just barely pushing his shirt out of the way. Clark felt Bruce’s nose brush against his stomach again and again as he sucked him, taking his full length without any sign of effort, working his throat and curling his tongue around him.

Clark had barely enough conscious thought to bite his fist to stay quiet and put a hand on Bruce’s head when he came. Bruce pulled almost all the way out, keeping his lips pursed around his cockhead, lapping up the cum with bright-eyed enthusiasm. The toy droned on, rising and receding, setting Clark’s nerves alight. Bruce smacked his lips when he pulled back, an unnecessary display of self-satisfied success that still made Clark’s stomach swoop, and brought the toy’s intensity down to a pleasant _burr_.

Bruce got up and kissed him once, open-mouthed and messy, grinding his hips against Clark’s leg.

‘Get on your knees.’ Bruce ordered, and Clark couldn’t move fast enough. ‘Take off your glasses.’

Clark held his glasses in his hands as he looked up at Bruce. Bruce carded his fingers through his hair, letting the curl fall onto his forehead. Superman in the clothes of Clark Kent. Bruce thumbed over his jaw in a rough caress as he worked his pants open. Clark kept his eyes trained on Bruce’s face because he knew that’s how he liked this, Clark on his knees, doing nothing but admiring him. 

In his peripheral vision, he could see Bruce jerking himself off, the smell of his sweat and arousal and precum stronger than the industrial-grade cleaners the janitorial staff always used. The vibrations of the plug felt like an extension of himself now, a low-grade reassurance, though he didn’t know what it was assuring him of. Clark smiled up at him. _Yes, please, yes_ , the smile said. _Yes, thank you, I love you_.

Bruce grunted and pressed his mouth into a thin line, swallowing down the moans that he would treat Clark to if they had been truly alone, the sounds that always made his head feel like it was spinning. Clark smiled wider and closed his eyes.

The cum splattered across his face, streaking his mouth and chin and teeth and forehead, caught in his eyelashes and dripping down his cheek. It was warm. It grew cold. Clark kept his eyes closed, licking his teeth clean.

Clark heard Bruce’s quick footsteps, the whirr-and-click of the paper towel dispenser, and the drip of the faucet. Moments later, he felt a damp towel drag across his face, wiping away the mess. Bruce’s touch was gentle, barely skirting over his skin with the wet paper, which somehow still managed to feel scratchy. When he felt Bruce move back, Clark opened one eye, then the other. Bruce was watching him, throwing the balled-up paper towel into a trash can without looking, his eyes betraying some kind of unsated hunger. He touched Clark’s temple, his cheekbone, his jaw, the movements quick and precise. He rested two fingers under Clark’s chin, palm facing up, just barely flexing the fingertips to angle his head. A movement, and the toy stopped moving.

Clark got back on his feet and inhaled.

‘You know I’ll be able to smell you all day, right?’

Salty, sweet, undeniably human. His face might be clean, but the scent lingered. His senses were a blessing and a curse.

‘You’d almost think that was the point,’ Bruce purred in his ear, pressing close again.

‘You’re insatiable.’

Bruce kissed his neck again, tugging at Clark’s collar and running his mouth over the exposed skin.

‘Mm, baby, don’t trust the papers.’ He moved away again, fingers tangled in Clark’s tie. He held the fabric taut between then, grasping the end like a leash. ‘Do you want me to leave before you take it out?’

Clark rolled his head against the wall, feeling the pull of the necktie when Bruce tightened his grip just slightly. The plug sat snug and comfortable inside him, but it was unbearably still. 

‘What if I don’t want to?’ 

‘The remote’s range is a thousand yards.’ Bruce leaned back, tugging at the cloth connecting them. The corner of his mouth twitched. ‘I’ll be working at the _Plaza_ today.’

The _Plaza_. It was Metropolis’ newest luxury hotel, a rebuilt monstrosity that fused Art Nouveau and brutalism. It was exactly the kind of place Bruce Wayne would get a suite at. It was also exactly 1,823 feet away. Plenty of leeway.

‘I hear it’s nice.’

Bruce let the tie fall and reached forward to fix the knot, his face neutral, his eyes focused on his work. He reached down and did up Clark’s pants and then his own. He splayed his palm over Clark’s belt buckle, fingers pressing gently against his cock, still sensitive.

‘Any important meetings today?’ Bruce asked conversationally.

‘Got a meeting with Perry at two thirty. Might take 30 minutes. I’m done for the day at four thirty.’

Bruce hummed, straightening Clark’s collar and patting down his lapels. He stepped back to study his work. Reaching into his inner jacket pocket, he pulled out a key card the colour of mint chocolate chip ice cream and put it in Clark’s front pocket.

‘The _Plaza_ is nice. You should visit sometime. The Presidential suite.’

Bruce turned to leave and, with a hand on the door handle, turned and winked at Clark.

Clark counted to one hundred before he put his glasses back on and pulled a hand through his hair. He swung past the _Planet_ kitchen area on his way back to his desk, preparing and gulping down a sugary coffee. He woke his computer and got the password right on the second time. At his first attempt, there was a sudden wave of sensation and overwhelming pleasure. It was gone as soon as he felt it. Clark jerked upright (and, thinking this, was embarrassed about the pun) and accidentally hit _enter_ on a half-written password. Three desks away, Steve Lombard looked at him funny. He glanced around the office and spotted Perry at the elevators, chatting animatedly with Bruce Wayne. Wayne was bouncing on the balls of his feet, his right hand moving wildly with his argument, his left in his pocket. For less than a second, he glanced over at Clark.

When Clark was young, there had been a stray cat on the farm who would catch pigeons and drop them on the front porch, preening for attention. Clark hadn’t thought about that cat for years, but he recognised its expression on Bruce’s face.

Bruce Wayne shook hands with the editor and left without a second glance.

Clark checked the computer clock. 1.17pm. He pulled out his wallet and tucked the hotel keycard behind his driver’s license. He opened the latest draft of his dog show article and started writing. Clark knew how to wait. And with Bruce, it was always worth the wait.


End file.
